


Sleepless Nights

by goddity



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Fluff, Home is a Person, M/M, PWP, Pining, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2016-09-27
Packaged: 2018-08-17 14:30:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8147485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddity/pseuds/goddity
Summary: Jamison can't sleep. At least there's plenty to think about.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [d0nkarnage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/d0nkarnage/gifts).



> i tried so, so badly to make this longer
> 
> based off my experience being awake when my wife was asleep

Jamison Fawkes sat up with a jolt, hair clinging to the back of his neck and face cold with sweat. Waking up because of how loud you can scream in a dream is entirely unpleasant.

The best way to describe the hotel room that Jamison woke up in was to say it was as though someone forgot that saunas were supposed to be hot. The air was thick and humid and _cold_ , and on top of all that, the entire room felt moist. Keeping the windows shut and the air turned up made the air dense, but turning it off turned the room into a true sauna, without any of the comforts. The curtains had been pulled shut but nonetheless the street lights poked between the disturbingly hideous blue and green panels, the light only more slightly more painful than the curtains that tried to block it. The air hummed underneath it, groaning and moaning in ways that put his bodyguard to shame but made comforting white noise. Noise was always better than silence, as far as the inventor was concerned.

He smacked his lips together, sitting up and squinting at the sporatic darkness. Bright, blue, toxic light bit the darkness back from a muted television. The blueberry light bathed the entire room in an ethereal and otherworldly light. It was the sort of experience that came from nowhere but these shady, rugged hotel rooms that blurred together in every town they passed through. He yawned, figuring that it was likely that Hog left it on for him, knowing he hated to wake up in the dark.

Anyone who'd ever been on the run knew how disorienting it could be waking up in unfamiliar places with no guidance. These days, though, there was no lack familiarity. All the hotels looked the same, they had the same channels, the same bedspreads, the same lamps, the same sample packs of soap that would inevitably go unused. It was as comforting as it was disturbing. To imagine so many places could be so similar, that sleeping never became a new or interesting experience, the idea that anything could be so _boring_ disturbed him.

Not enough to keep him from sleeping, but enough.

Given where he had been, given the places he _had_ slept, dangerously similar hotel rooms were nothing. Even a moldy, cigarette-burn-poxed mattress was better than a cold concrete floor. It was better than any prison cell, holding room, chair, or backseat he'd ever been in. Jamison usually woke up sore but it was better than other options. And, if he had to be honest, most options that Mako found weren't all that terrible to begin with.

He rubbed his eyes. The light stung but it was better than darkness. He glanced over at his bodyguard, struggling to occupy the full size bed on the side of their meager side table. The pig looked good in the citrus yellow and the bitter blue that washed over him, the rat's shadow silhouetted against his sides. He wheezed softly in his sleep, mask amplifying his breaths. It was like a dull, soothing roar, not unlike the sounds of the air conditioning. Granted, his breath usually made a room hotter instead of cold. Thinking about it, he imagined it was terribly unpleasant sleeping in that mask... Last time Junkrat had made an attempt at removing it, the hog had made the less-than-casual threat of tearing off his other arm. Mako always seemed to sleep better than his smaller rat counterpart, often times shifting slowly onto a bed that would barely support his weight if he moved, and sleeping effortlessly through the night. Junkrat envied that.

Junkrat rubbed his shoulder, suddenly hyper aware of the absence of his prosthetic. It had truly become an extension of himself and it was weirder to _not_ have it than to have it. There was no reason to go seeking it in the dark, knowing it could wake the other.

Instead, he opted to look at the arm he _did_ have. Fingers had been broken and healed, broken and healed, broken and healed, enough times that digits didn't quite sit correctly when his hand was flat. They had probably broken more times than he knew, but it wasn't worth dwelling on it. The pain went away, eventually, and the pain that didn't made itself at home. Soft, dark brown speckling ate away ate his wrists and inner elbow, dirt prepared to devour every inch of him if Mako didn't intervene. He was the only reason the dirt ever came off. He could have spouted a million reasons off at the big pig as to why it was important to stay dirty, but none of them really mattered. He liked the dirt, in a way. Showers took too much energy. The water was always too hot or too cold, and the water pressure in these old dingy hotels was never high enough or was way too high. It was easier to just stay dirty. Eventually, he'd be dirty enough to just lay into the ground and be gone for good.

Of course there was no 'gone for good' as long as the big lug kept following him around like he said he would, kept him fed like he said he would, kept him clean like he said he would. He almost hated him for it. Almost. It was comforting to know that for some reason the pig wanted him alive. A strange, less primal part of him felt that it didn't have to do with the treasure. It was an asinine thought, to think that someone wanted him for something that wasn't the treasure. He clenched his fist, feeling his skin tighten over joints that were sore despite his age.

He felt so old, but Mako made him feel... okay with that. The body guard made him feel like living longer was okay. Like, maybe he didn't need to go straight into the ground. The soft blue light that danced against his massive, fantastic form only made him ask himself what he was still after out here. He had more treasure than he'd ever need; there was no real point in going into more heists, planning more attacks, even going onto random crimes and just taking what he could get. No take was too small. But why did the take even matter anymore?

Well of course the take mattered, the fun of it was the take.

It was all in good fun - good fun, good guns, good friends...

He gave his leg a thoughtful scratch, dirt collecting under his nails in chunks, like clumps of skin. He picked them out with his teeth, sharp enough to get the job done, grimacing at the taste. He took note that maybe he could install a little blade on his arm, something that made cleaning the clumps out a little easier. Not that it mattered, since the next scratch would just lead to more clumps anyway. 

He stretched his leg out beneath him, wincing at the soft sound of his joints creaking. He tended to lock up in his sleep, he didn't move much. He always figured it was a defense mechanism of some sort. Of course, sometimes when the two had to share a space, he just crumpled himself up to take up as little space as possible - Mako needed the room more than he did, poor bloke. Thankfully, his joints were a little quieter than the prosthetic and had no effect on his big pig. The light danced between his toes and up his leg. Even his leg had the soft speckling of dirt, a discolored patterning that reminded him of a dog, an animal. He knew it wasn't good to be like this. Course, he would argued that a lot of his traits were 'not good to be like.'

Rather than concern himself with his physical care, Junkrat aimed for something that seemed as unreasonable and stupid as most of his other decisions. He decided that, using the side table as support, he was going to push the limits of his cohort's mattress and lay with him. With a soft groan that he hoped was inaudible, Jamison pushed himself up and put as much of his weight as he could on the side table, struggling to keep himself upright without either prosthetic. He hadn't bothered to become sufficient without them and was only mildly beginning to regret it. The table creaked in protest, which was met with a less than polite " _Shh!_ " from the junker. His bones still ached with sleep, his back howling in protest and trying to dissuade him from his movements. Still, the other bed seemed a lot more comfortable. After all, Roadhog looked so comfortable...

Louder than the table before it, the bed _screamed_ at his intrusion. While he didn't wake, his bodyguard rolled onto his back. Jamison shifted close to his side, resting his head on the crook of an arm. He stunk like the road; sweat and leather clung to his flesh, tough as leather itself. He smelled like fire and ash, and blood and that strange lemon smell of hotel shampoo. It was a terrible, awful smell that was the most comforting and welcoming thing Jamison could think of. Not that he'd admit it out loud, but it was. Underneath all the smells was a fleshy smell, a smell that was wholly hog. A stink of sweat and hair and grit, the kind of smell that helped him sleep better. If he had to think of a reason it was so comforting, not that anyone would ask, not as if he would _tell_ anyone, it was because it was a home smell. He smelt it wherever he slept, wherever he went. It was home. It was so different from hospitals and doctors and the people who told him what he was supposed to do to feel better, but only made things worse. Clean smells, like citrus and saline... Those weren't home. Home wasn't clean, home was a place that was dirty and lived in and gross, but folks knew that. Sometimes the plates piled up, sometimes the trash piled up, sometimes the problems piled up. That was home. This guy, this big lug with a gatling gun the size of a little blonde Australian rat, he was... well, he was...

Junkrat liked to think that the smell was just as strong under the mask, if not stronger. The inside of the damn mask was probably like odious sauna.

The larger man's chest rose and fall, in a rough inarticulate rhythm that would have made him nervous if he hadn't been so familiar with it. Mako used to cough in his sleep, cough hard, the kind of coughs that would have killed a smaller man. Jamison wasn't sure why it'd stopped, but it was nice to enjoy his slightly-less-awful snores.

Roadhog was a big guy. There wasn't much getting around that, no matter which was you looked at him. He was a great bodyguard; he could block large projectiles, he could take a serious hit, and worked for forty percent most of the time. Somehow, none of those things were what made Jamison really feel safe though. He stared vacantly up at the leather mask, blue light painting him the way it painted him most nights. His silver hair, too silver for a guy his age, really, probably, looked chrome under the light, mask looking more shark-ish than like a pig. He made a note that wearing a shark mask could be fun at the beach, people _loved_ sharks at the beach. Good way to get a great seat, if he could get the guy to go.

Jamison would have gone anywhere the pig told him too. Honestly, he went most places because he told him too. It wasn't exactly that he was agreeable, he thought, but more that... He just wanted to go with him. It didn't matter where; back to the outback - what was left of it anyway, through the mountains, an expedition to Everest, he'd go. He wouldn't admit that, he'd put up a fight every step of the way if the reward wasn't big enough or if he wanted to complain, but he'd go. Places were alright, and Mako was pretty good, so it couldn't be too big of a loss. Couldn't be any worse than places he'd already been... and if Mako was there, well...

He closed his eyes, listening as the hog and the air conditioner fought for dominance, the pounding of the big man's heart audible from his arm. He hated the sound of hearts beating. It sounded like guts. Guts were supposed to be on the inside, no one wanted to hear that shit. It wasn't a good sound. EKGs, dyin' folks, that was heart beats. The constant reminder that he was fleshy and breakable, that was heart beats. But not Mako's. For some reason, not Mako's. Arrhythmic and a little too fast, it pounded through his arm and the smaller man's head, determined to keep the big pig going. He sighed softly, tugging his knee close to his chest, curling to fit in the arch that his arm and stomach made, when a few fingers caressed his side, lightly brushing his protruding vertebrae.

"Not your bed." Was all the voice said at first, distant, tired, not enough there to have a real conversation.

"Half my take, half my room, half my bed." Jamison mumbled in argument, eyes still shut. Damned if he would leave this bed now. He'd pulled his damn self out of bed, with one arm and one leg, and crawled into his arms. He wasn't leaving without a fight. He'd bite the shit out of the pig if he had to.

Roadhog groaned, tightening his grip a little and pulling the smaller man closer. He was a frustrating little runt, but good company. Junkrat lit up, thankful that he didn't have to do any biting, since it seemed awfully wasteful to have to initiate a fight that would have no doubt destroyed the hotel room and ended with him crying dramatically to make Mako apologize.

Jamison's hand, despite it's usual purposes, was gentle in touching his bodyguard's side before lightly draping over his ribs, gently resting over his throbbing heart. Through the stillness, the blonde could feel it there too, working hard even when the two of them were supposed to be sleeping. Working just as hard was the bed, who squealed in pain when Mako began to shift, moving onto his side and pulling the smaller man close, not rough but not gentle, forceful to say the least. The heartbeat echoed through his vertebrae, the contact warm and inviting compared to the harsh damp darkness of the hotel room.

"Sleep." Mako muttered through his mask, head sinking into the pillow as he easily drifted back to sleep.

There was nothing in the world that he had felt or seen that compared to the hog's heat. It was intoxicating, inviting and overbearing and too much and just enough. It was better than any take, any victory, any glow of fire on the horizon when viewed from a rear view mirror. This... This was home. Not a smell, not a place, not a feeling. This, right here. The gentle warmth of someone who cared about him, even when they acted like they didn't, holding him in a place they hated, in a town they'd forget in a week, in the pale blue glow of a cable-transmitting night light. This was home. Roadhog was home. Anywhere on the damn planet was home if he could be there with him. He'd give his arm and leg over again to keep it, because there was always the threat that one day a bounty wouldn't be good enough and the guy could up and leave. And if he wanted to, Jamison would have probably let him.

Junkrat pulled the larger man's hand, as best as he could, a little higher so he could see it, before lacing his thin fingers between Roadhog's.

He would put up with nightmares every night if he was given this sort of chance.


End file.
